Juggling a couple fewer balls.

Oh, I am crass.

This is a post about balls. You may or may not want to read it.  Indeed, I am talking about gonads. Grimby’s, to be specific. Though, I promise this post has less to do with the actuals balls themselves than it is about the circumstances surrounding the removal of them.

I’ll stop using synonyms for Grim’s cojones pretty quickly here, I promise. I mean, after all, how many ways are there to say huevos? Evidently, there are several.

I would also like to mention that it is difficult to type when your dog insists on gluing himself to your side to chew on his favourite soggy pumpkin stuffy. Here’s what it looks like:

So comfy

This is where Grimby is sitting while I type this. It’s very meta.

And then occasionally, he walks across my laptop, because obviously the other side of me is more comfortable. I mean, I love that he snuggles, but sometimes it’s a little tricky to get things done, though I suppose I could always go sit in my chair at my desk. Which is specifically designed for such activities as typing. You know, as opposed to lounging in horrible posture on the couch, craning my neck like a raptor whilst I tap out my thoughts on the laptop resting on my lap.


Okay, so on Thursday, I bring the Mayor to the vet office in the early hours. All is well. He actually loves going to the vet, possibly because he loves everything except baths. And peeing in the rain and having his teeth brushed and his nails clipped.

I go back later that afternoon to pick him up and here’s what unfolds (you just knew there had to be something dramatic, right?): I chat with my favourite admin lady, who is all lovely and friendly and clearly adores Grimby more than all other patients. I know this because when I showed up to pick him up, she said, “Are you here to pick up the cutest little Boston Terrier and Best Dog in the World?”

I mean, there were other people in there with their dogs. Talk about awkward. True, Grimby was in fact 78 percent cuter than the next cutest dog, but still. So, clearly, Grimby is the vet office fave, based on the empirical and unbiased evidence that I just presented. Obviously. Have you seen him?

Sorry, all you other dogs. I know you are awesome and your owners love you very much, but that’s just the way it is. We do try to let other dogs feel good about themselves, by exclaiming how much our devastatingly handsome pup farts and snores (which is a lot, by the way). He is currently snoring on my lap, in fact. He has woken himself up six times with his own snoring. I’m kind of impressed.

I paid her, we chatted and laughed while agreeing that Grimby is the best dog on the planet. And she would know: She works with all kinds of pets. I paid her and filled out the microchip form (Grimby really wanted a chip. He’s really into technology.).

Then, the vet tech comes out to tell me about post-op care and gestures me into a room. I had a brief moment of concern, seeing as how I’ve only been in this particular room once, when my beloved Minnette was put down.

Pshaw,” I told myself, “it’s just an examination room. You’re being silly.”

So, we’re standing there in The Death Room of Great Sorrow and she turns to me and says, “So, we made a mistake this morning with Grimby.” To which I responded, “Um, what?”

And I flung myself upon my hands and knees, gnashing my teeth and wailing in grief. Or at least had a mental flurry of concerned thoughts, such as:

“Oh my God, they killed Grimby!” and then, “Wait, they wouldn’t have made me pay for the surgery if they killed him.” After all, “Would they make me pay for the surgery after they killed him?” Let’s be rational here. Oh my gosh, what did they do? “Did they cut off a leg? Replace his heart? Replace him with a bunny?”

You guys, I was worried. I had me a moment. I think my reaction was only to be expected. It turns out this vet tech just has an awkward bedside manner. What had happened was that they did a blood test when we’d chosen against it (really, only because he is very healthy and it seemed an unnecessary expense. We are not bad pet people.). He was alive. Grimby was alive and had all his limbs and a normal puppy heart and wasn’t a bunny.

But wait <<insert more panic and wringing of hands>>, did they find something terrible in the blood test and that’s why I was in The Room of Sorrow Mingled with Death?

No, they did not. Grimby is perfectly healthy. That tech just really needs to choose her lead-in a little more carefully. I mean, come ON!

So that’s that. I am possibly somewhat dramatic and very much attached to this snoring fur ball.


A new look and an old question.

Coffee-shop-blog-post outfit.

Coffee-shop-blog-post outfit.

You may have noticed that my blog has changed. You, Friend, are very perceptive. I decided, in light of my recent perspective shifts, that the View From the Bay should shift also. It’s a sleeker, more grown-up look, just like me. Ha! Just kidding. I’ve been wanted to swap it up for a while, because I didn’t like how narrow the text column was, which is irksome to my eye and most likely to yours as well. I like to write and I don’t need my posts seeming optically to be longer than they already are.

As for me being all changed and whatnot, well, that part’s true. Though, strangely, I’m quite at peace with myself. Not that I was expecting to go all “cray” and act out in my internal struggle, cutting my hair with rusty kitchen scissors in a fit of angst. Yes, that is from a country song. It’s been kind of like a breakup.

Don’t worry, though; we don’t even have rusty kitchen scissors. That’s just unsanitary.

The thing is, I am changed. Pretty profoundly. And to be honest, I struggled against it (clearly, as my last post conveyed). I didn’t think I could change me without losing me, if that makes sense. Instead, I’m pleased to learn that I’m still me, just more of me. Unfiltered, though not completely, by any means. A little more true. There was no loss that cost me anything I didn’t want to lose. It’s like being hypnotized: No one can really make you do anything you don’t want to do. I’m not saying I’m perfect (though I am, and so are you), at least not in terms of my journey. I’m pretty sure I’ve only dipped my toes in, and I’ve got a long way to go. I think that’s what life is about. It’d be pretty boring if I was on the top of my game with nowhere to go already.

I love this quote by R.W.E. and I’m pretty sure he didn’t mean this was something you just do once:

Make the most of yourself, for that is all there is of you.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson

I’m a little surprised to see that life goes on as it did before. I don’t mean to sound all dramatic (though I realize I often do, but let’s face it: I’m a star), but honestly, it’s like the sky should be, or could be, a different colour. It’s not, but I will say I can appreciate the sky in whatever shade it shows up, without thinking about what it should be, so that I can have something to resent. I spent a lot of time shaking my fist at the sky, chastising it for not being something other than what it was.

And, if you think I’m just talking about sunshine and blue skies here, you’re missing the point. I’ve spent a lot of time experiencing my entire life and my relationships with people, animals, inanimate objects and fairy tales, through what they should be, or should have been or not been. It’s exhausting and let me tell you how well that was working out for me: Not so much. Unless you count me having the right to be angry and disappointed all the time. Not exactly a blue-ribbon life, huh?

peterpanAs for my old question, well here it is:

What do I want to be when I grow up?

Thing is, I’m still not sure. It’s really frustrating and it’s a question that’s plagued me for a long time. In my full-time business of making every little thing so gawd-damned significant, I’ve been utterly paralyzed. I’ve stayed where I don’t want to be, afraid to answer the question with anything but “I don’t know”. I’m not sure who I expect to have the answers to what I’d like to be when I grow up, but clearly, it wasn’t me.


Maybe I’m going to be many things. Maybe moving on doesn’t have to be so bloody significant. Maybe I move on to something and it’s the wrong something, and I move on again. Maybe I mess up and go backwards. So far, nothing in my life has done anything but add to who I am today, so why don’t I pry off those fingers of fear that have been holding me back?

I’m trying. I often wear a necklace that Adam bought me for my birthday (he bought me Runaway Girl for a wedding present—subtle irony intended): It’s the silhouette of a little girl wearing a cape. I love her fearlessness and her can-do attitude. Maybe it’s time I try my cape on, instead of just talking about it. Time to actually try something, instead of worrying about whether it’s going to work out. Because there’s no way I can actually know that and staying put isn’t working out for me so well, anyway.

Do you recognize any of this in yourself? Are you holding yourself back? What’s in your way?

Growing pains.

Hey my peeps! How are you? I’m pretty good. It’s a long weekend, for one thing. Tough to beat a long weekend. It’s been about two years since I lost flex days, which have to be just about the best work flexibility ever. I sure miss my Monday flex days. Some people prefer Fridays, but here’s my strategy behind Mondays:

  • Mondays are kind of a bummer. Because they’re all Monday-ish.
  • Fridays, however, are pretty much awesome. You can wear jeans on Friday and everyone’s in a good mood, what with the impending weekend and all.

Therefore, why would I want to miss Fridays? Much better to miss every other Monday. Plus, long weekends are often Mondays, so then you get Tuesdays off, too. Anyway, I don’t get flex days anymore. I work the same hours, actually more, but alas! No flex days in recognition of it. I do definitely have a pretty flexible situation at work, so I’m not really, really complaining (much). But I still miss them…

So, I said I’d fill you in on the coaching training I’m doing. This could be a really long post, but I’ll give you the Cole’s Notes version.

The long and short of it is that I’m taking a year-long, super-intense training and accreditation program in life coaching. “Life coaching?” you say. “Oh geez. I can’t take Bay seriously now.” I know what you mean. I nearly couldn’t either, when Adam started looking into coaching. But after witnessing his personal transformation this past year, as well as seeing the results in some of the people he’s worked with, I started to change my tune. I wanted it for me. I want me out of my way. Some people live really amazing lives and, quite frankly, I’m tired of envying them. I want to be them. So I dove in.

Thus far, it’s been hard. This style of coaching is called ontological (I totally had to Google it, too). This basically means it focuses on who you are being, as opposed to what you are doing. I mean, there is power in this. But there is also discomfort. For reals. I remember when I was 13 or so and grew four inches in one year. It friggin’ HURT! It felt awkward and achey and uncomfortable. Turns out that personal transformation feels pretty much the same.

So far, both weekends I’ve been in training have been tough (this is somewhat misleading: we meet in-person in Seattle one weekend per month, but there is mad work to be done in between. I guess I’m saying that if you don’t get phone calls or coffee date requests from me, don’t take it personally.).

Tough. Ha! Understatement of the year. I LOST it, very publicly, on more than one occasion. I mean alternating between wracking, heaving, can’t-exhale sobbing and simultaneously saying, “Feck all y’all” on repeat while envisioning doing great physical harm to people. Not killing them (I’m not a monster!), but I was pretty much a Virtua Fighter in my mind. Like a crazy one, with mad ninja skillz and a cold, cruel disregard for pain.

Why was I mentally orchestrating such pointed violence, you ask? Well, there were many reasons, but largely they were of my own interpretation (so I see now. This awareness was not available to me last weekend.). Imagine you have a bear. A big angry momma bear (I think they’re grumpier), and you’ve taken away her cubs and her salmon and berries (this is all that I know that they eat, apart from hapless people), backed her into a corner and then poked at her with sticks. Picture her response, multiply it by 12 and you might be getting closer to envisioning my emotional/mental state last weekend.

The good news is that I’ve come out the other end of each weekend a better person. To my mind’s eye, too quickly for my comfort, my perceptions have shifted and I’m noticing that I’m noticing things. Hilariously, I didn’t want to admit this. That’s what I mean by too quickly. Perhaps that isn’t hilarious. More indicative, really, of some stuff I need to deal with. And this transformation is what I signed up for, after all. Add to this the fact that I am actually really enjoying coaching people (I was really not sure how I’d do/feel, but I’m loving it) and really, things are going swimmingly, if not always smoothly.

I feel like that’s a pretty heavy post, so I’ll stop rambling here. I’ll share more of what I’ve learned about me soon. And I promise I’m okay. Better than that, really. Much better. Some old chains are falling off and it feels much nicer. Lighter. More free.


Sometimes, you just need to get a new perspective.

Sometimes, you just need to get a new perspective.

Just over the fence.

Hey guys. I’m in Seattle, for weekend two of my coaches’ training program. I’m not ready to write about it yet, so I’ll fill you in later. I will share that while I can see the beginnings of transformation (which is what I signed up for, after all), I childishly don’t want to admit it (though I suppose I just did, didn’t I?). This is largely because the weekends thus far, all 1.5 of them, have kind of left me feeling generally pissy and angry. Being confronted with your stuff—in concert with 14 other people’s baggage—doesn’t leave you (maybe it’s just me) a lot of room for grace. Oh well. No one said it would be easy.

More to come on this at some other point. I know I’ve said that before and never returned to a topic, but I promise I’ll be back with this one. Scout’s honour.

Anyway. On another note, Starbuck’s in Seattle are always interesting. There’s an impressively bearded guy on my right who is either playing an intense video game or plotting the overthrowing of a small nation somewhere in the South Pacific. I wonder if when he wakes up, he has bed-beard. Like, it’s all squished and flattened on one side. I wonder…

It bears noting that I will consistently take a seat next to a chatty Kathy, or in this case, chatty Keith, who absolutely does not pick up on my I-want-to-be-alone vibes. Seriously. When I put on headphones, I’m telling you I’d rather listen to Fun than to you. To be completely honest, I’d rather listen to Fun a lot. IT’S SO GOOD! I have to limit my exposure to Some Nights, though that limit is pretty high. I think there’d be an amazing opportunity for choreography there. All marchy and throwing yourself around the floor and big, surprising jumps. I love a good jump that you don’t see coming. They happen to me all the time in ballet class. “Whoa—I just jumped there. In pliés. At the barre.” (I’m 32. At this point, a lot of my dancing is kind of an out-of-body experience, where my mind is just kind of bemusedly watching my legs and feet do stuff, with little communication between the two.)

But I digress. Surprising.

You know, throughout the course of my day, I’m often struck by random thoughts (shocking, I know) and inspirations for future blog posts. I always think to myself, “I should really write these things down,” lest I forget. But I never do. Write it down, that is. Forgetting I do all the time. Which leads me to today’s topic: Stuff you can get in the U.S. that you can’t get up here in the True North Strong and Free. I think I kind of sort of generally remember the gist of this one.

For example (NB: the font’s about to get all small. Don’t ask me why.):

  • POG. Okay, to be fair, I actually enjoy that I only get this in Hawaii, because it’s totally an island treat. But still. Still.
  • 4-litre jugs (that’s right, I said JUGS) of rum, with a reinforced plastic handle (on account of the heaviness of the rum, you see).
  • Flavoured everything. Coffee? How ’bout toasted coconut coffee? UM YES PLEASE VERY MUCH THANK YOU! Almonds? Why not try roasted coffee almonds? OMIGOSH THEY’RE PUTTING ALL MY FAVOURITE THINGS IN ALL MY FAVOURITE THINGS. IT’S LIKE THE SOUND OF MUSIC IN MY MOUTH! “THESE ARE [QUITE] A FEW OF MY FAVOURITE THINGS!” (You can sing along)
  • Cheap but awesome white t-shirts at Tar-jay. Seriously. I wear a white t-shirt pretty much every day. I’m not exaggerating. They’re like $8 and they’re really nice. A decent, though not as nicely fitting, tee at home will set me back at least $20. FOR CRYING OUT LOUD. I AM. I’M CRYING OUT LOUD HERE.
  • OH, AND DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON THE YOGOURT. Seriously. You guys: They make fat-free flavoured Greek yogourt that you can’t tell is fat free. And it’s not sweetened artificially, either. Up here, all our fat-free yogourt is sweetened with aspartame or Lord knows what (and even He might not be able to pronounce it. I’m just saying). Because obviously, I don’t want to watch my weight without increasing my odds of developing cancer and having a numb tongue. Which reminds me; does your tongue go numb with artificial sweeteners? Mine does. It’s like my tastebuds are protesting and just pretending to ignore me and everything I eat for an hour after touching the offending stuff.

Well. Now I’m all riled up. Good thing I love Canada so much. I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Except maybe a sojourn in France. I’d be down with that. I could bring Grimby everywhere. He’s very chic (when he’s not peeing on his own face. Don’t ask. My dog is amazing and not always in the most sanitary way.).

Anyway, I think this post is just about a wrap. I must say, though, that the weather is kind of yucky. This is not shocking to those of you who are aware of the meteorological conditions that tend to frequent the Pacific Northwest. But in my defense, I did check my iPhone weather and it said there would just be clouds. So I wore suede shoes, which was a decidedly bold move, not unburdened with doubt. You win, Mother Nature. This time (and probably most of the time).


This is an unrelated picture, because the internet is slow in this Starbucks and I'm impatient. But it is a good picture.

This is an unrelated picture, because the internet is slow in this Starbucks and I’m impatient. But it is a good picture.